


mere anarchy

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M, Kink Meme, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://madmenkinkmeme.livejournal.com/882.html?view=28018#t28018"> this prompt</a> at the Mad Men kink meme: <i>"Lane being befuddled, Joan being one smooth operator and the whole office being entirely oblivious."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	mere anarchy

Following a forceful conversation in the hallway with Scarlett about the Thanksgiving holiday, Joan sails straight into Lane's office, shuts the door behind her, and takes a seat on the sofa, exhaling a frustrated breath. She glances up to meet his knowing expression.

“What did the poor girl do this time?”

Watching a small smile play around his lips, she slants him an annoyed look as if to ask _what the hell was she thinking?_

“Asked for more time off.”

“Was she very traumatized when you refused?” Lane asks, with the smallest air of mischief in his voice. Joan rolls her eyes at the word. _Traumatized._

“You've heard me yell before. It isn't _that_ upsetting.”

He huffs out a noise that signals his amusement, scribbling a note on the paper in front of him.

“It remains an experience unlike any other.”

She glances up at him only to notice Lane staring into space with an expression between nervous and pleased. That tiny smile is back.

Joan raises her eyebrows. He must have liked it more than he's letting on. She remembers the passion behind the kiss he initiated, months ago. Truth be told, she's still curious. The thought presses at her mind again, now – what would he be like in a more...unrestrained moment?

She decides to act, and find out. Normally she'd be subtle. A lingering hand on his arm, a smile, a soft laugh. But subtlety assumes he'll have the gumption to make a second move, and Lane is hesitant about physical contact at best. If she's going to satisfy her lingering curiosity, she's going to have to take the lead.

“And how exactly do _you_ avoid that _experience_?” she finally asks, uncrossing her legs and leaning back into the suede.

Lane's eyes widen in slight panic.

“Oh—I didn't mean—” he stutters, then seems to recover after glimpsing her teasing expression, realizing it's meant to be a joke. He exhales a laugh, setting aside his fountain pen and folding his hands on top of the paperwork.

“Probably just luck, isn't it.”

“Probably,” Joan replies with a smile, slipping out of her high heels. The left one clatters softly as it hits the tile. Lane cranes his head to stare from her bare feet to the shoes on the floor, baffled.

“What are you doing?”

She wiggles the toes of one foot at him, as if to say hello, then uses it to push the coffee table a few inches forward.

“Making myself comfortable.”

“Do your...feet hurt?” he asks after another moment.

She smirks.

“I'm still tense.”

Drawing her hands up her stockinged leg, as if to massage it, the edge of her palm nudges the fabric of her dress. She pushes it up by several inches, and when the tops of her stockings are exposed, he exhales a sharp breath, flushing a dark red.

“I don't understand—” he begins gruffly, but when she widens her legs, the comment dies on his lips. From this angle, he can probably see straight up her skirt. His hands fidget noticeably atop the pile of work on his desk, like he's having trouble restraining himself.

Joan studies his expression, an anxious mixture of arousal and shock. When she speaks, her voice is low, but unwavering.

“I want you to touch me.”

She releases a garter on one of her stockings, and he swallows hard. It's so quiet in the room she can hear his shallow breathing. Her heart pounds against her throat as she continues her movements, still watching his reaction. He won't meet her eyes, but he can't stop staring at her hands, which unclasp her garters with deliberate motions. So, when he stumbles to his feet as if he's been pushed, crossing the room and flipping the deadbolt, Joan doesn't hide her satisfied smile.

After he locks the door, it's as if he's second-guessing the impulse. He takes off his jacket, folding it into fourths and placing it on the coffee table along with his glasses, shooting her a questioning look after he does so.

_What next?_

“Come over here,” Joan instructs, mouth quirking in a playful expression. “I don't bite.”

Lane obeys, surprising her when he kneels in front of her splayed legs instead of sitting beside her. He puts one hand on her knee, and draws a small path up her inner thigh with the fingernails of his other hand, studying her reaction with lust-darkened eyes. She shivers, breath catching in her throat, and this spurs him on. His hands – softer than she'd imagined, except for small calluses on his writing hand – push her dress and slip up, over her raised hips, and as soon as that's done he hooks his fingers around the waistband of her satin panties, pulling them past her knees and over one foot with a caution belied by the eagerness on his face.

When he pushes her garters aside and begins to trail kisses from her knee up to her inner thigh, stroking her lightly with his other hand, she chokes back a moan. By the time Lane's mouth and tongue sweep over her – slow and teasing at first, then faster, and more insistent – Joan's hands are fisted in the back of his hair, her unfocused eyes staring at the speckled ceiling tiles. She's biting her lip to keep from crying out.

Her thighs start to tremble, and her hands tighten in his hair. She's close. Lane makes a low keening noise in the back of his throat, and the needy sound, combined with the sensations, pushes her over the edge. When she catches her breath, she glances down at the man kneeling between her knees. He's watching her with heavy-lidded eyes and a grin of satisfaction, mouth wet, belt and zipper already undone.

She urges him up to the sofa, slipping her left hand inside his shorts with a sly huff of amusement. So impatient. Lane gives a gasp at the sudden contact, mouth falling open and hips jutting up as she starts to stroke him in earnest. It's not long until he gets so worked up he's breathless. When he comes he has to clench his jaw to stifle his groan, eyes squeezed shut, arching against the cushions.

She withdraws her hand and puts her head on his shoulder as he takes a few minutes to recover, but they don't speak. When she finally moves, she reaches for the kleenex box on the side table to her left, taking a few tissues for herself and proffering the box in his direction.

Lane's staring at the ceiling, his posture as relaxed as she's ever seen it, but when he finally looks over, and notices what she's holding, some of his anxiousness seems to return, and he blushes again in earnest.

“Thank you,” he mumbles. She has to concentrate to restrain an inappropriate laugh, and averts her eyes out of politeness as they clean themselves up and re-adjust their clothes. After she puts her shoes on, intending to get up and refresh her makeup in the ladies' room, she suddenly feels Lane's hand on her knee.

Joan looks over. His eyes are wide and searching hers, mouth twitching slightly as if he has something to say that won't leave his lips. She cups his face with her right hand, feeling the barest scrape of stubble under her thumb as she strokes his cheek, trying to communicate that everything's all right. He doesn't have to say a word.

“See you soon,” she says gently.

Before she can disentangle herself, he kisses the inside of her palm, then pulls away from her hand. An awkward smile blooms at the corners of his mouth, and he blushes a third time under renewed scrutiny, ducking his head to quickly obscure this.

“All right,” he replies, adjusting one of his shirtsleeves, and refusing to look at her again.

Ten minutes later, the 2:00 traffic meeting gathers in the conference room. After an almost imperceptible hesitation, Lane sits down in the chair to Joan's immediate left, stacking two manila folders by his notes with stiff, military precision. She pushes a spreadsheet in his direction with one hand – revised budget – and he takes it with a quiet thanks. Harry's looking over a few message slips, Stan's doodling on a yellow legal pad in thick permanent marker, Peggy's crumpling up a freshly-ripped piece of paper from her notebook, and Ken and Pete are busy bickering about Vick Chemical. If there is something slightly different about her own behavior, or Lane's, no one notices.

Joan shuffles her papers and takes up her stenography pad.

“Everyone, shall we begin?”

**Author's Note:**

> So....this happened again. Title taken from the first verse of Yeats' "The Second Coming," because I love that poem and also I am twelve:  
>  
> 
> _Turning and turning in the widening gyre_  
>  The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
> Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
> Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
> The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
> The ceremony of innocence is drowned;  
> The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
> Are full of passionate intensity.


End file.
